


Dear Sherlock

by fmart203



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt, John's an Idiot, M/M, Parentlock, Short Story, WIP, sherlock and john are broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fmart203/pseuds/fmart203
Summary: John was the only person in the whole entire world who Sherlock had ever loved, and who Sherlock would ever love. And now his dream, the one Sherlock had fantasized about, was finally happening. Only, it wasn’t. Not really. This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. Things were supposed to be happier.Post The Lying Detective because I'm still angry about Season 4's actual ending.





	Dear Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first actual fan fiction that I've ever posted, so please bear with me as I'm not that good at writing, especially when it comes to writing dialogue. (Yes, the story is actually that bad). It's still a wip, but I'm planning on finishing it. This story is post season 4, taking place after the The Lying Detective. Please enjoy it, and let me know if there's something you see can be worked on.

Even before he entered the room, Sherlock knew who it was. Heavy footsteps, footsteps that used to scream ‘military’, but now are the footsteps of a man with far too much on his soul. A brisk walking pace, and a polite voice as one would expect the British to have.

Sherlock, tired, and not wanting to talk to John at the moment, upped the morphine stream from the side of his bed and leaned back, pretending to be asleep before John got to his hospital room.

John entered, and Sherlock, while his eyes were closed, could feel John’s eyes on him, before walking over to the chair besides Sherlock’s bed. As John sat down, he made a small sigh, and Sherlock could him breathing. The breaths were long, drawn out, heavy breaths. John, just like Sherlock, was tired.

He heard John’s fingers first tapping on the side of the chair, then being moved into his lap, before John moved his hands the to the arms of the chair. He heard John lean back into the chair, so much so that it almost tipped over. He heard him let out a long sigh, almost as though he had a cigarette with him and was just letting the steam out of his mouth. But Sherlock knew John didn’t smoke.

And then, John spoke. 

“Hello, Sherlock. I-” And then his voice cracked. “There’s something I need to tell you, but I don’t know how. I don’t even know if I’m right. I could be. It’s all very…” A sigh on his end. “Confusing. It’s all very confusing.”

Sherlock knew that John’s fingers were shaking.

“Okay, you know what? I’m just going to say it. Sherlock, I love you. There,” John said, letting a small breath escape. And Sherlock knew that he was standing up by this point, the chair pushed behind him. He was leaning on his right leg, as he always did when he was desperate, when the psychosomatic limp came back, but no one ever noticed except for Sherlock. And Mary. Mary noticed it, too. 

Sherlock also knew that his hands were on his hips, and his head was slightly cocked as it almost always was when John couldn’t believe what he’d done. His eyes, his blue eyes were alive with fire, with fear, with anger, with rage. With courage. With bravery. His hair was falling over his face. 

Sherlock knew all of this because when you’ve lived with someone for a long time, when you love someone, you memorize everything about them. Their voice. Their face. Their favorite foods, their sense of humor, their taste in women, the movies that will make them cry even though they deny it. Even if you know that you will never, ever have a chance with them, you can’t help yourself from falling in love. 

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time, Sherlock. And I don’t think I knew it, either. You were gone, and I found myself a woman, a  _ woman _ , in an attempt to fill the void that I couldn’t figure out why it was there. And now she’s dead, and now you’re lying here, all because I beat you up. Because I knew I was going to blame myself for her death, but I couldn’t not once again believe that I was the cause of someone’s death, so instead I blamed you.  _ You _ , Sherlock, because  _ you  _ always showed up at the wrong moments, because  _ you  _ made a vow. Because you were the more convenient choice, with your silly antics and games, and I knew that if I were to blame myself, I would not be able to handle the pain.”

“You’ve called me brave on several occasions, have you not? No, Sherlock. I am not brave. People think I am, because I am a soldier. I have fought in wars. I have seen death so many times, and in so many different ways, and it nearly destroyed me. But I was not courageous, not there on the battlefield. I was not brave. I tried to save so many soldiers’ lives, so many times, but so many times I have failed. And when I came back, I was happy to solve murders with you, because the people, they had already been dead. I didn’t have to carry the guilt of letting them die.” 

“Then, you killed yourself. I blamed myself for that one, too, Sherlock. And that nearly destroyed me, and it would have, but I was saved by Mary. I love her so, so much. And when she died, I was so done with having everyone I know always dying on me, so you seemed like the obvious choice to take the blame.”

“And that brings me to last week, when I beat you up. The whole day I was angry at you. You, who killed my wife. You, who started using again. You, always putting on a show, always acting. I was so frustrated, because it was so hard to see though the veil of your thought, and I didn’t know if you were off your rocker on drugs, or just lying.”

“When we were in the morgue, there was something about your eyes. They used to be bright blue, but now… They’re dead. They have lost the electric genius spark to them. I think it was then I realized. We’re both broken, Sherlock. Both of us. I want to travel back in time, and I want to never meet you again. But I need you. I need you, because it’s you who has helped me when I was a my lowest point. You saved my life, and this is how I repay you. I let you nearly die by abandoning you, and then I beat you up. Because that’s who John Watson really is. I’m a selfish coward, and-”

“No.” Sherlock’s low voice came out of nowhere, a surprise for John Watson.

“Pardon?”

“You’re not selfish, John.”

“Yeah, and  _ you _ weren’t even supposed to be awake!” His hands gesticulated with a frustrated manner.

“Don’t change the topic. You knew very well that I was awake. You’ve lived with me long enough to know that I am a very light sleeper, even when given morphine. And,” Sherlock said, his blue eyes meeting John’s, “I think you wanted me to hear it.”

John flinched. Sherlock looked as his face turned an adorable cherry color as he started at the ground while shifting uncomfortably. 

“Maybe I did. What’s the point?”

“Of what?” Sherlock’s low voice murmured.

“Of all this.”

A laugh from the man in the hospital bed.

“Trust me John, I’ve been asking myself that for many years. I have never been able to find an answer, but it’s all very comical. Look at us.” He lifted his hands in the air as high as they were permitted, being restrained by an I.V. and several lines of tubing.

“What about us?”

“A doctor and a detective. Both are broken. Both of us, John. And both of us, both of  _ us _ ,” Sherlock said, his voice breaking on the ‘ _ us _ ’ so it came out as whisper. “Both of us love each other.”

A heavy silence followed.

 

John walked over to Sherlock. He knelt down by Sherlock’s bed, reached for Sherlock’s hands, and put them in his own.

“What do we do?” His voice softly asked Sherlock. “You’re the one with all the answers.” He faced his head downwards, but Sherlock could see the tears still.

“I don’t actually know.” A small smile on Sherlock’s end. “That’s something you thought you’d never hear me say, right?”

“Never in my wildest dreams.”

“Never in my wildest dreams,” Sherlock murmured, repeating the phrase after John said it.

 

They stayed together like that a long time: Sherlock, lying back in bed, his eyes closed, letting John hold his hands. John, clinging onto Sherlock’s hands as though they were the last thing in this world that kept him grounded, because in a sense they were. Eventually, John got up and looked over at Sherock to see him sleeping, presumably. John couldn’t actually be sure.

“Okay, Sherlock. I’m going to leave now. I guess when you get out of hospital we’ll have a proper talk.” 

His hand reached up towards Sherlock’s face, out of impulse, and he let it sit there on Sherlock’s face for what felt an eternity, before letting it fall onto Sherlock’s shoulder. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, very lightly, and then pulled it away, returning it to his side. 

He left the room with lighter steps than he entered it. 

 

\------------

 

A few weeks later, John entered the flat from the supermarket. Him and Sherlock had not talked about the day in the hospital since, and at first John was confused. He then realized that Sherlock was giving him space. Sherlock was generally not the space giving type, and it meant a lot to John that Sherlock realized he needed time.

“Welcome back. Did you get the Boron and Magnesium as I asked?”

“Uh… yeah.. But all they had was supplement tablets, I don’t know if that will work or if you want it pure?”

“No, supplement’s fine. If I wanted it pure I would have ordered it online. Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

 

John handed the grocery bags to Sherlock and walked over to his chair. He was about to get settled when he noticed the fire had not been started yet, so he threw some logs and newspapers in, to start it. Within seconds the fire was warm and crackling.

“Sherlock. Do you want to talk?” John asked. He turned around in his chair to face the man in the kitchen, where Sherlock had been cutting up god-knows-what. He paused, the sound of the knife ceased.

“Only if you want to talk, John. I’m not going to force it upon you.”

“I think,” John paused, and collected himself. “Yes, I think I’m ready to talk.”

“Okay then,” Sherlock said, putting his knife down and taking his place in the chair opposite to John.

“Sherlock, you know… that… I love you.” The ‘love’ came out as a mere whisper, and he found it hard to say the words. Yes, he had told Sherlock that he loved him before. But that was different. That was when he loved Sherlock as a friend, or so he thought. To love Mary, and to then love Sherlock so fast after Mary was something that was hard to grasp.

Sherlock only nodded, and his eyes had a kind patient look to them that John rarely saw.

“But I can’t really love you. Not right now. I can’t  _ be  _ in a relationship with you, if that was… if that was what you wanted.”

“I would want only what was best for you, John.” He did not hesitate as he delivered the phrase. John suspected that Sherlock had given much thought to the subject.

“Is there anything, however, that you ask of me, John?”

“Just be there for me. As a friend, nothing more. Nothing else.”

“Yes,  of course.” Sherlock said, rising from his chair to return to the kitchen. “Let me know if you need anything.” His hands picked up the knife and the chopping resumed.

John nodded to acknowledge Sherlock, but did nothing more. His eyes stared into the fire in the fireplace. His body was at 221B but his brain was somewhere else, somewhere far, far, far away. 

\------------

That night, Sherlock was lying in his bed, alone, trying hard to fight the urge to stab someone. John loved him, but didn’t want to be in a relationship with him? That was understandable, but what wasn’t understandable was how  _ long  _ Sherlock had to wait for John. John was the only person in the whole entire world who Sherlock had ever loved, and who Sherlock would ever love. And now his dream, the one Sherlock had fantasized about, was finally happening. Only, it wasn’t. Not really. This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. Things were supposed to be happier.

He sighed, and lightly punched the pillow next to him. The pillow next him. The bed with space for two people. The bed that only had one person in it, every night. His room, his lonely room. His room had space for more than one person. 

And then, the gravity of it all overtook him. Sherlock did not consider himself a crier, not by a long shot. In fact, he was the person who was the most in control of his emotions out of all the people he knew. However, if anyone wanted proof that Sherlock was human and had emotions, then all they had to do was walk into Sherlock’s room that night.

His face was buried in his pillow, which he clutched with both arms. He was sitting up, his mop of curls unwashed and unbrushed for a few days now. His back was moving up and down, heaving with the motion of his sobbs. 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock up, curls falling into his face as he did.

“Oh hello, John.” He gave John a weak smile. “Not the best moment to catch me in, huh?”

“No… No, I don’t think so.” John said. His eyebrows were upturned, giving his a face a concerned expression. His eyes were searching Sherlock’s face very rapidly, as though he didn’t know quite where to look.

Sherlock stared up at John. Upon further inspection, he saw John’s cheeks were also stained with tears.

“You’ve been crying,” He remarked quietly.

“So have you.”


End file.
